by Kitty Thomas
These are claiming marks that say I belong to this man. They are proof that we are two real people doing this twisted thing together. They make our secret real.
8
Just as he said, the police don't bother me again. On Friday, a few hours before the show, and around closing time for most normal jobs, I get a phone call. It's the police chief. It seems very unusual that the police chief would call me.
My heart hammers wildly as I listen to what he has to say. He tells me that he's very sorry I was bothered the other day by one of his officers. The guy was new and overstepped his duties. The police chief tells me he understands Conall and I had a complicated relationship and that I may be quite relieved if my husband never shows up again. And this is understandable, he says.
He tells me Conall is under suspicion of being mixed up in a lot of highly illegal activity which he is not at liberty to tell me about, though the words Irish Mob get thrown out in passing. They suspect he fled the country under a new name and could be anywhere by now.
The chief says he would be very surprised if he ever returns to this city or even the country. Then he goes on about protocols for how long it will be before they can legally declare Conall dead—for my sake—so that the house becomes fully mine and the accounts become fully mine. He says the department is here for me in whatever way I need and not to hesitate to reach out if I need anything at all. The way he says this seems to extend truly to anything and doesn't seem to be only about this issue with Conall fleeing the country. The chief assures me that otherwise no one from the department will disturb me again.
It's a surreal phone call. Very surreal. I thank the chief, disconnect the call, and just stare at the phone in my hand as if it might transform into a snake and strike. What in the actual fuck just happened?
I mean I don't know all that much about police procedure. What I do know, I've learned from television shows, which I'm told aren't very accurate. But I know what just happened isn't normal. That officer that came to my house didn't overstep his duties. He was just doing his job as officially laid out.
My blackmailer's boasts of his own power being far greater than Conall's, of his wealth dwarfing Conall's, were not empty. I know with every fiber of my being that he did this. Somehow. I don't know how. Is the department dirty? Did he pay the chief off with some ridiculous sum to free me? A freedom I'm well aware he can take back at any time.
Or maybe Conall was mixed up in something. I'm really not entirely clear about things. He owned several businesses: a chain of hardware stores, some restaurants and Irish pubs, a few night clubs. But I don't know much about it or which establishments he specifically owned. I know he went to work in an office building somewhere in the city where he presumably did office-type work managing his businesses. I know his secretary was the Delectable Stella. Is that weird? Or is it normal? That he had all these businesses and had some official office building set up? I don't know.
The more I think about this, the weirder I think it is that I knew so little real information about Conall's life outside of me. It seems suspicious, like he must have been doing something very wrong to keep me so hermetically sealed off from his life.
Everything between us always seemed to revolve around his jealousy and irritation over whatever minor thing he'd decided was a major catastrophe in our relationship at the moment. It was all about fear of what he would do to me and how I knew I could never escape him.
I can't escape my blackmailer either. But somehow even though I should—especially after the cane—I don't feel that same threat with him. I want to run to him, not away from him. Even if I have to run blindfolded. It's only been two days since I was with him. The welts and soreness remain with me, as though his hands have stayed on me even in his absence.
Was Conall in the Irish Mob? I think it must be some crafted story to put all the pieces in neat ordered rows, to close this chapter of my life once and for all with no loose ends, but I don't know. You hear a lot about the Italian Mob. You even hear about the Russian Mob. But you never fucking hear about the Irish. Most normal people forget there even IS an Irish Mob. Or they think there was one, early in the 19th century, maybe early in the 20th as well, but that somehow they just faded into the mists of time or returned to the rolling green landscape of Ireland as if whisked away there by fairies.
But they are out there. And Conall could have been one of them. I have no idea. But what I do know is... this was handled for me. Just like I was told it would be.
This should make me more afraid. Someone even more dangerous and powerful, someone with no face and no name... has this absolute power over me. I should change my name and flee the country—if I even knew how to do that. But then I couldn't dance. And all I've ever wanted was to dance. And just fuck it all if I can't do that one fucking thing.
I'm only free if I'm on a stage. In prison or a fugitive is all the same to me. And so I belong to this man who holds my life in his hands, who just pulled strings to free me from the consequences of murder, who claims he plans to elevate me in the company if I prove to him I can be a principal. There’s no longer any doubt that whatever this man wants, he will get, whether from me or anyone else in his path. Even so, the doubt lingers that he can or will make me a principal.
I don't know why I hang onto this doubt. I guess it's because it's all I've ever wanted, and if I believe it will happen and it doesn't, I don't think I'll recover. I can't allow myself to hope. Even if he can do it, maybe he just wants to dangle it in front of me like a carrot. I can understand why he handled the police. If the police got suspicious and took me in for questioning, my blackmailer loses control of the narrative, and it's obvious that the only currency he truly wants to possess is power. Control. He feeds on it and on me like a vampire with blood.
I spend the next ten minutes or so as I get ready to go to the theater fighting with myself over whether or not I should think of this man as my blackmailer. I mean he is my blackmailer. But when I think of a blackmailer, I think of someone who demands small unmarked bills in a paper bag left under a park bench every Thursday afternoon at two p.m. Not... this.
I want to call him my lover, but we aren't exactly having sex, and is he my lover if it's coerced? Is it coerced? I can't pretend I haven't desperately wanted every single touch from him. Even the punishment.
I can't pretend it hasn't all excited me, but does my wanting him even matter? What if I didn't? What would he do then? I can't bring myself to test this theory because I don't want him to stop. So it just rattles around in my brain, haunting and tormenting me.
Three hours later when the curtain goes up and I'm on stage, he’s in the box seat. I see his shadow outlined there. I feel his eyes on me. I let out a relieved breath and feel unreasonably safe, protected in this moment. Even though I realize exactly how crazy this thought is.
I dance better than I've danced since all this started because for the first time, I have the smallest hope that even if I can never be truly free, he will at least let me dance. And that's free enough.
9
It's Monday morning. The entire company is in Studio A. Every single dancer. Every single choreographer, instructor, the director, the ballet master. Everyone. Something big is about to happen. We can all feel it, but we all pretend we don't, running through our warm-ups and stretches at the barre as a sense of nervousness moves through the room like an electric current.
So far, the men and women running the company have been off in a corner of the studio having a private discussion, so technically, they haven't really “entered the studio” in terms of etiquette because they are collected in their own group full of low whispers and nods. Finally, they break from this cluster and come over to where we are. All the dancers stop what they're doing and turn to greet them. The dancers who were stretching on the floor stand.
“Good morning, company,” Mr. V. says.
“Good morning, Mr. V.,” the company answers back.
“I have some exciting news.
We'll of course be doing our annual two week run of The Nutcracker in December.”
This isn't his big news. This is just the introduction.
A barely audible sense of grumbling ripples through the room. We all fucking hate The Nutcracker. And we hate it because it's the only ballet most people know anything about. And we have to perform it every single year with no deviations. It doesn't rotate in and out like many other repertoire ballets. It's just always there. I don't know a single professional dancer who feels giddy about The Nutcracker.
Mr. V. ignores the response, largely because it's an involuntary reaction for the most part, and it happens every year. Then he continues.
“However, in a few weeks, we’ll start working on Firebird. We have a guest choreographer coming in with exciting new choreography I know everyone will love. The full cast list is posted beside my office door. But I would like to take a moment to announce a promotion and welcome our new principal dancer, Cassia Lane.”
There's a ringing in my ears as I try to determine if he really just said my name or if I got lost in a fantasy again. But Mr. V. is looking right at me and smiling warmly. “Cassia will be our firebird this season.”
I know my mystery blackmailer said he could elevate me. I wanted to believe it, but deep down I didn't. Now I do. The depth of his silent power here is astounding.
I could tell myself Mr. V. just saw something in me and made the decision in concert with the others at the head of the company, but Conall was paying to keep me in the corps. That means his donation was at least matched to get me here, otherwise my talent could never overcome the economics of the situation.
“I've been working privately with Cassia to get her up to speed with the rest of the principals,” Mr. V. adds. In this single statement, he's just saved my reputation—offering a neat explanation for his Monday afternoons with me in the small private studio. He's saved me from being viewed as some whore who let him between my legs for a promotion, not that anyone in the company doubts my legitimate talent.
Everyone is stunned. I hear whispers from some of the principals. The only clear sentence I can pick out among the murmurs is: “That role should be Natalie's.”
I glance over to Natalie. She looks shocked as well. I know she wanted this role. I know she expected to have this role. Only moments ago, when the new Firebird was announced, she was no doubt excited, imagining herself soaring through the air in a fiery red costume. And I can't blame her for that.
This woman has the power to ruin my life at the company. She has the power to make every day a living hell for me. She's a senior principal and the top prima ballerina here, and by right, all the best roles are hers. Every dancer here defers to her. They respect her.
Natalie moves from her place at the barre with the other principals and crosses the studio to me with purpose. There is absolute pin-drop silence. I can almost hear the sound of a slap across my face. But the expected retribution doesn't happen.
Instead, she smiles and hugs me and whispers in my ear. “You will make a beautiful firebird. You deserve this. I'm so happy for you.”
This is a severe break in ballet etiquette, but no one chastises her because every single person in this studio from the ballet master down to the newest member of the corps knows that this is important. If Natalie accepts me, they all accept me.
She takes my hand and guides me over to the set of barres where the principals stand, and room is made for me. Then everyone in the studio, previously frozen by this news and Natalie's actions, breaks out into applause. Mr. V. nods his approval at Natalie as if he had no doubt she would be classy about this.
Rehearsal starts as though nothing monumental and world changing just happened to me.
When we break for lunch, Natalie guides me back to the special set of dressing rooms reserved for the principals. There’s a large dressing room for the men and one for the women. Each dancer has a generous specific space to get ready in. In the middle, connecting the two dressing rooms, is a large lounge. It's reminiscent of a school teacher's lounge in a way or an office break room.
There are tables and a refrigerator and microwave, a counter and a sink. There are a few couches and a large flat screen TV on the wall and a video game console. The other walls are covered in dance posters. I've never seen the inside of this room. It's a perk for the principals.
Natalie shows me to a place of my very own in the women's side of the dressing rooms, and then she takes me out into the hallway to a private space to talk. My heart is in my throat. Is this when the mask slips? Is she going to let the claws out now? Is she going to beat the crap out of me so I can't dance and take this role from her?
Before she can speak, I say, “Natalie, I'm so sorry... I didn't know they would... I had no idea about any of this... that part should be yours.” And it should be.
But she's still smiling—not a fake smile. “Cassia, relax. I'm not mad. You really do deserve this. It hasn't been announced yet, but I'm leaving at the end of the season and moving to another company.”
“But why...?” Maybe she got a better offer. And it's not my business anyway. Natalie Dumas is a fixture here. It seems impossible that she could ever leave.
She shrugs and laughs. “I'm in love. He's a principal at the company I'm joining. Long distance was getting too hard for us. There was finally an opening, and I auditioned a few weeks ago. So yes, I would love to be the firebird—especially with new choreography. But my future isn't here. And yours is.”
“Do the others know yet?”
She shakes her head. “No, I just found out recently. I told the director before the performance last Thursday, and he asked me not to say anything until today. Listen, when I'm gone, you're going to be the queen bee around here.”
I balk at that. That's ridiculous. “But I only just got promoted...”
She shakes her head. “You know that's not how this hierarchy works. You're my replacement. They want you at the top of the company. If they didn't, they wouldn't make you the firebird in the middle of the season. They're making a definite statement with this choice. They didn't tell me this ahead of time, but trust me on this one. You're their new star. So when I leave, I need you to keep the group together. Don't let it devolve into nasty cattiness. This company works better when we all support each other.”
It's a myth that all dancers are vicious competitive assholes to each other. At the same time, people are human, and at some companies, dancers are vicious competitive assholes to each other. But not here, and the reason for that is Natalie.
She continues. “Don't abuse your power. Don't be cruel to any of the dancers. Don't call them out in front of others if you don't absolutely have to.”
“I won't. I would never...”
She nods. “Let's go to the lounge. I need to let the others know I'm leaving. They don't need to hear it from somewhere else and think it's because of you.”
Frederick, the top male principal who normally dances with Natalie, comes over to us when we enter the lounge. I stare at him for a long moment. I know he can't be my tormentor, the man in the private box, because he was on stage dancing during that time.
But I also don't know for sure that my blackmailer actually is the man in the box. That could all just be a fantasy in my head... a story I'm telling myself. But whoever is behind my turn in fate had the money to make up for the lost money from Conall. Even a top principal dancer doesn't make the kind of money to match Conall's contribution. But I don't know Frederick's personal finances. He could be independently wealthy. And I've never really talked to him.
My blackmailer is obviously both a dancer and somebody who knows the Swan Lake choreography. Oh, fuck, what if I'm wrong about the private box? Is Frederick the man I've been meeting and doing things with on the stage of the old opera house every Wednesday? Is this the man I call Sir?
I can't stop the blush at this thought. I want to sink into the floor and disappear.
“Welcome to the top of the food chain, Cassia
,” he says with a wink.
I let out a breath. No. This is not my mystery lover. His voice is different. I smile weakly back at him.
“I'll be dancing the firebird with you,” he says.
I glance over to Natalie, who gives me an I told you so look. She's right. The company is sending a clear signal. They absolutely would not pair me with Frederick in the middle of the season like this if I weren't Natalie's replacement.
The other principals are in the lounge by now. They watch me with a certain wariness. They saw Natalie's reaction, so they aren't ready to lynch me just yet, but should they get the signal, they will pounce on me like ravening hyenas.
Natalie tells them what she just told me out in the hallway. It gets very emotional. There’s crying. Even a few of the male principals tear up. The depth of love they have for this woman eclipses even what I thought I knew. She promises she's just a plane ride away, and she'll visit.
Frederick looks not less sad, but less shocked than the others. He must have known about the boyfriend at the other company and seen this coming.
We all go out together for lunch at a local restaurant. I make it a point to speak individually to each of the male principals, but none of them is him. The man who owns my life is not one of the men at this table.
When I get back, Melinda and Henry practically maul me.
“I told you!” Henry says, sweeping me up like only a long-time dance partner can manage. “I knew you were the best dancer here!”
And now I'm sad, because although I'm excited to be dancing with Frederick, this means I won't be dancing with Henry any longer. He senses the sadness, and I know he feels it, too, but then he says, “I got paired with Melinda for this one. It's all good, don't worry. I will survive.”
“This is so exciting!” Melinda squeals. Of course she wishes it were her. There is no corps dancer who doesn't fantasize about the magical moment I had this morning. But she’s happy for me, and her hug and congratulations are genuine.
